


Wings

by im_fairly_witty



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, God likes to keep her secrets, The Ineffable Plan (Good Omens), and the pegasus pluralism debate, feathers of the wrong color, mention of victorian crinoline hoopskirts, mutual panicking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-19
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2020-05-14 21:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19281307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_fairly_witty/pseuds/im_fairly_witty
Summary: Haven’t read the book in a couple years so my wing/feather headcanons are only 100% guaranteed as being TV canon compliant. Enjoy some Aziraphale and Crowley mutual panicking.





	Wings

A large pair of wings is unlike a Victorian ladies’ crinoline hoop skirt in several obvious ways, but similar in several slightly less obvious ones.

They both have a reputation for keeping men an average of three to six feet away from your person at any given point. They both demand an irrational amount of maintenance and readjusting as one navigates furniture that was clearly designed by someone who does  _not_  have them. Perhaps most notably, they both make getting in or out of practically any enclosed vehicle a process long enough to make onlookers politely grit their teeth.

But the clearest similarity is that both wings and Victorian crinoline hoop skirts were only socially acceptable in public for one century among the dozens that have spilled across Earth, and that if you’re caught wearing them in any other period of time you’re liable to find yourself the subject of unwanted attention.

Which is why, after over eighty-seven years of wearing their wings among mankind, as naturally as any Victorian woman would wear her giant steel cloth covered hoops, a memo on both sides was sent to every angel and demon to notify them that 1. Wings were no longer to be worn while around humans, who were already getting better at discriminating against others based on physical appearances 2. Wings would also be restricted around the offices to save on cubicle space 3. The use of hamster related miracles were under staff-wide suspension until further notice.*

Which is how both Aziraphale and Crowley often went decades at a time without taking their wings out, instead keeping them put away as they enjoyed the pleasures of oblivious crowds, high backed chairs, and 1926 Black Bentley cars.

In fact, it had been nearly seven years since Crowley had last consciously thought about his wings the morning that they began to itch.

Specifically his left wing, around the primary feathers.

Crowley grunted to himself as he stood from his desk. He rolled his shoulder backward, then forward with a tense jerk, pulling his wings back into this plane of existence. Keeping them put away was a simple enough trick, pulling them back out again always left the same pins and needles sensation as a leg that’s been sat on too long at a bad angle.

Crowley sighed as he stretched his glossy black wings as high up as he could, nearly brushing the high ceiling, before letting them drop back down into their natural folded position at his back, angling his left wing to scratch the offending itch before he put them away again. He might even take the chance to clean them before he-

His fingers hovered frozen over the glossy feathers as he stared. He whipped off his ever-present sunglasses as he grabbed his wing, angling it a bit painfully to get a better view.

Not that he really needed to. The long ivory white feather nestled among the ebony ones would have been visible in the deepest pits of Hell itself, whose terrible lighting he could personally attest to.

He swallowed, reaching out and yanking at the white feather, half convinced it was some mistake. Some stray metre long primary feather that somehow belonged to someone else that had ended up on him instead,  like cat hair or the little stickers that belong on fruit but more often than not end up on the cuff of your shirt sleeve.

The sharp stinging pain that shot along his wing said otherwise.

He gripped the feather hard enough to crush any earthy matter as he yanked again, but the effort only sent him to his knees as he hissed in pain, his wing stinging and aching. The white feather was as securely stuck in his wing as ever before. Maybe even more so.

Crowley snarled at the rumpled white feather as he spread his wing wider, his mind racing.

Everyone who has ever tried knows that you can’t pluck an angel. Although, to be fair, this is the kind of practical knowledge only possessed by a very exclusive club of individuals, including three popes, two Swedish dockworkers in the 1720’s, a Brazilian bartender, and that one tenacious fellow in the Old Testament that didn’t know to quit until his entire shoulder was dislocated.

Pluckability is a design flaw found only in lesser winged species, like birds and Pegasus.**

But those most intimately familiar with this fact of feathery infallibility of course aren’t the angels themselves, they are the demons. Because you can’t have a demon without first having had an angel, and the shock of waking up to find one’s wings nightmare black after having been snowy white for the last few eons is enough to give even the dirtiest low life a moment’s pause.

But for the casual downward saunterer the shock was far, far worse than that. There was generally a brief, wild hope that maybe if the feathers were ripped out by force that perhaps they could grow back in the right colour again. But no one has ever discovered if that is true, no matter how many long nights and painful hours that they secretly devote to the attempt. Even miracles of the demonic kind had no power here.

“I left you behind,” Crowley hissed, gripping the offending feather tight enough to bend iron, “like heaven you’re waltzing back in, not after all this time, after everything I’ve been through. I’ve saved reality while wearing all black and I’ve gotten along just fine.”

The feather said nothing, as feathers generally do. Although it did seem to have something of a cool air about it.

Crowley grit his teeth as he looked around his apartment, already knowing from experience that of course that there was nothing to be done, no strength could pull it out, and no earthly blade or flame would sever it.

Crowley squinted up at the ceiling. If only he hadn’t let Aziraphale send back that flaming sword so quickly after last week’s hoopla...there might have actually been a chance  _that_  would have worked now that he thought about it.

There was always holy water too of course, but that did seem a little extreme. Besides, with his luck all that would be left of him if he were to dribble some on his wing would be the white feather itself, which looked a chillingly like an  _angel_  feather.

“You’re  _not_  staying.” Crowley growled at the feather, just to make sure they were on the same page, “If you’re not coming out then we’ll just make sure you’re as dark as the rest of me.”

Crowley was just putting his sunglasses back on to leave in search of some place that sold feather dye (he didn’t dare miracle some himself, demonic magic wouldn’t help him here he already knew, plus there was  _bound_  to be a human somewhere who sold it) when he heard a swift, light rapping at his door.

There was only one person in the universe who was both supernatural enough to find his apartment as well as polite enough to knock.

“Crowley, I was hoping I could have a word with you?” Aziraphale called through the door, his voice high and shaky, “I’m afraid it’s rather a bit of an emergency.”

Crowley prickled at the clear panic in Aziraphale’s voice, crossing to the door in an instant and yanking it open.

“What is it?” he asked.

His eyes widened as he saw Aziraphale’s huge white wings were out in plain sight for every passers by to see, and see they did, staring as openly as if Aziraphale were wearing a Victorian crinoline hoop skirt.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Crowley hissed, pulling him in and slamming the door behind them.

At the last moment he remembered his own wings were still out and he pulled them tight against his back, concealing the intruder feather. Crowley had spent too many millennia defending his moral reputation from Aziraphale to let him see  _that._

“I-I’m sorry, I just didn’t know what to do. I panicked and came straight here, I’m not thinking straight.” Aziraphale said, wringing his hands.

Crowley noticed with a deeply foreboding feeling that his friend’s bow tie was slightly crooked for the first time since bow ties had been invented. Not even the apocalypse had interfered with his friend’s personal neckwear grooming standards before.

“What is it?” Crowley demanded, dark magic already crackling protectively at his fingertips, “Angels? Demons? Humans? What’s the matter?”

“My wing!” Aziraphale said, his voice cracking as he extended his right wing, spreading the huge white feathers wide for Crowley to see, “Just  _look_  at it!”

Or to be more specific, spreading the huge white feathers and a single black one for Crowley to see.

“Where did you get that from?” Crowley exclaimed, pocketing his sunglasses and bending closer to get a better look, a small ridiculous part of his brain wondering if Aziraphale had somehow stolen one of his.

“If I knew I wouldn’t have gotten it!” Aziraphale said sharply, “I didn’t pick it up at a flea market Crowley, it just appeared!”

Aziraphale tucked his pure wing close to his back, holding the tainted one awkwardly extended, as if he were trying to keep the dark feather as far away as possible. He looked at Crowley with a panic that made the demon’s heart hurt.

“Would you pull it out for me?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley blinked at the question, “You know I can’t do that.”

“Of course you can.” Aziraphale said briskly, “My magic won’t miracle it away, but surely yours can. Perhaps ripping out feathers is a sin, that’s right up your ally.”

“Have you actually tried pulling a feather out before?” Crowley said, pushing his hair back with a sigh, “One that’s not already loose?”

“No.” Aziraphale said, tipping his chin up, “Of course not. I’ve never needed to, my feathers have always been perfectly celestial,” he swallowed, “But I suppose that it probably hurts...which is why I was hoping...well I was hoping you could do it instead, so I don’t have to watch.” 

One part of Crowley was touched that his friend would trust him like this, which was far more serious than rescuing old books or taking a stain out of a jacket. But the rest of him groaned that he was being asked for the one favor he couldn’t give.

“You  _can’t_ pull feathers, not even black ones.” Crowley said, holding his hands open in helplessness, “It only hurts, it never actually pulls the feather out. Believe me. I’ve tried.”

Aziraphale bit his lip, looking very much like he was trying to hide the fact that he was biting his lip as his mouth quivered.

“Angel, no, you’re not going to cry? Don’t cry.” Crowley said, panicking. Never in six thousand years had he seen him actually cry in instances not involving well made food, “It's just one feather! You’ve still got hundreds of white ones, you can just hide it.”

“Would you please at least try?” Aziraphale pleaded.

“It would only hurt you, I’m  _not_  going to hurt you.” Crowley said with finality.

“Crowley, what if I’m  _falling_?” Aziraphale said, voice trembling as he sat heavily in a low backed chair.

Crowley swallowed. He hadn’t considered that.

“You’re  _not_  falling.” He said sternly, getting down on one knee beside Aziraphale’s chair, “This is nothing like falling, I promise.”

“But it’s  _black_!” Aziraphale cried, awkwardly holding his wing up over their heads.

“When you fall,” Crowley said, gently taking Aziraphale’s wing and bringing it down so he wouldn’t strain it, “it’s not one feather at a time. It’s all of them. It’s the inside of you that changes little by little, but the outside is sudden. You really think that you’re alright, that it’s not so bad because you look fantastic in the outside, and then one day you’re cast out of heaven and find yourself free falling into flame with black wings and snake eyes.”

“I thought only you were a snake?” Aziraphale asked, wiping at his eyes, “Aren’t the others toads and flies and fish and-”

“I was speaking broadly.” Crowley said, “The point is that if you had really properly fallen you’d have entire wings of black feathers, not just this one.”

“What if I’ve fallen but I’ve just done it badly?” Aziraphale asked in horror.

Crowley shook his head with a smile. “You know, if anyone were to somehow bungle up something as easy as  _falling_  it would be you, but no. This is something else.”

“Well how do you know?” Aziraphale said hotly, his voice wavering, “For all we know, I could be a, a demon right now.”

Crowley sighed. He could try explaining that Aziraphale still smelled like an angel, that he still  _felt_  like an angel, or even that hell would bend over backward to keep from having someone like Aziraphale on its payroll, but he knew none of these would be much comfort to his nearly hysterical friend.

“ _This_  is how I know.” Crowley said, standing and extending his wing for Aziraphale to see.

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide as he looked at the large white feather among the black.

“You stole my feather!” He exclaimed, looking up in disbelief.

“I swear I didn’t.” Crowley said, putting his hands up, “Grew it myself apparently, same as you. I only found it this morning, but I wasn’t going to tell you.”

“Why wouldn't you tell me?” Aziraphale said, reaching out to run his fingers over the snowy feather, “Crowley this is absolutely remarkable, I’ve never heard of a demon growing an angel feather back.”

“And I’ve never heard of an angel growing a single demon feather.” Crowley said, folding his arms, “Which is why I know you’re not falling, because I’m certainly not...I don’t know...what’s the opposite of falling? Jumping? I’m not jumping back to heaven because of one feather. This is something different.”

“Maybe you’re just getting white feathers because of the stress.” Aziraphale said, his voice still wavering, but the smallest of teasing smiles on his face, “You are rather getting on in years.”

“I’m trying to comfort your existential dread and you’re mocking me?” Crowley scowled, snapping his wing back and away from Aziraphale, “And you know that’s not a thing, we don’t age.”

“I’m only saying, it’s been quite a stressful last few years.” Aziraphale said, sighing as his smile dropped away. He extended his wing, holding his black feather beside Crowley’s white one. “I suppose we really are a pair, aren’t we? Swapping temptations and blessings for thousands of years, fudging memos...”

“Getting kicked out of heaven  _and_  hell.” Crowley finished, staring pensively at the feathers too.

“Maybe...maybe this isn’t bad.” Aziraphale said, looking up hopefully, “Maybe it’s not good or bad, maybe it’s just...something in between? Like us?”

“I’m not good.” Crowley said stubbornly.

“And I’m not bad.” Aziraphale said quickly, “Of course not, but...well...if God makes angel feathers white and demon feathers black just to tell us apart, then maybe this is just-“

“If you say “ _part of the ineffable plan_ ” then I swear I’ll-”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Crowley. I was going to say that maybe feathers aren’t good or bad, maybe they’re just...well...sides.” Aziraphale scratched the back of his head, “And maybe now that we aren’t on either side, now that we’re on our own side with the humans...maybe that’s why this has happened?”

“So you’re saying that the pigmentation of the feathers on our wings means as much as the colours of a football jersey?” Crowley said flatly.

“I don’t know.” Aziraphale said, sighing and throwing his hands in the air,  “That’s the best I can think of on an empty stomach, alright?”

Crowley knew that angels do not in fact feel hunger, hunger pains, or “hangry”, but if Aziraphale was thinking about food then things were at least 59% alright again. Which was a percentage that Crowley could work with.

“If you want to go out for lunch then you can just say so.” Crowley said, pulling his sunglasses out of his pocket and slipping them on.

“Do you really think we’d better?” Aziraphale said, the effect of the obviously doubtfully tone of his voice rather ruined by how eagerly he sprang up from his chair, “I mean, we still don’t know what to do about the feathers, and this would be the third time we’ve gone out to eat this month!”

“Well as far as we can tell the feathers aren’t doing either of us any harm.” Crowley said, giving his white one a last idle tug before folding his wings up and putting them away, “So we might as well do something more interesting than staring at them to take our minds off it.”

Aziraphale looked doubtfully at his black feather before finally folding his wings and making them disappear too. “Well...I suppose so.” He said.

“And so what if it’s the third time this month?” Crowley asked, pulling on his jacket, “Are you that sick of me already?”

“No! Of course not,” Aziraphale said quickly with a smile, “in fact I’ve got just the place in mind.”

“Lead the way.” Crowley said, sticking one hand in his pocket and gesturing to the door with the other.

“And Crowley,” Aziraphale said, hesitating at the door, “you will tell me if anything else...happens, won’t you?”

“Sure, fine.” Crowley said, shrugging noncommittally, “If you want.”

“And thank you for, for helping me calm down.” Aziraphale continued earnestly, “I don’t mean to make it sound like falling would be, well, I mean you’re the most decent person I know but I don’t know what I’d do if I...well...”

“Well for starters you’d have to groom your wings far more than you do now.” Crowley said, reaching over and opening the door himself, “You wouldn’t think it but every single speck of dust shows up on black, it’s a nightmare keeping them clean, that’s the real torment of being a demon to be honest.”

“Is  _that_ why demon wings are always so glossy?” Aziraphale asked, following Crowley down the steps and out onto the street.

“Second we’d have to change your whole wardrobe,” Crowley continued, teasing now, “can’t have a demon running around looking like an eighteenth-century librarian in cream and beige.”

“I look distinguished,” Aziraphale said defensively, “you’d rather have me looking like a hooligan attending a funeral in the eighties?”

“Low blow, angel.” Crowley said, shaking his head, “No wonder you’ve got that black feather.”

“I’m telling you right now you’d better not use that to tease me,” Aziraphale said, lightly smacking Crowley’s shoulder, “or else I’ll do the same to you, I’m warning you.”

“Physical violence  _and_  threats?” Crowley gasped, “You’ll have a whole  _wing_  of black by tonight.”

“You’re absolutely terrible.”

“You really do say the nicest things.”

 

  
  
_  
Footnotes:_

*Number three was only included in heaven’s memo. Demons have always had unrestricted hamster access, with obvious consequences.

 

**The plural term for Pegasus is a hotly debated topic among celestial zoologists. One side insists on Pegasi, another on Pegagon, and one side on the fact that it really doesn’t matter what the correct term is when there was only ever one winged horse in existence as the result of a manufacturing error, rendering the whole pluralism debate irritating and useless.

This last argument is the least popular.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! You can check me out on tumblr at @im-fairly-whitty for more angel demon content, comics, and ramblings.


End file.
